


What I Did on My Summer Vacation

by Ellidfics



Series: Captain Fraudulent [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pennsic War, SCA - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2020-08-11 18:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20158276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellidfics/pseuds/Ellidfics
Summary: Sharon is horrified to learn that Steve has never actually gone on vacation, not in the 40's and not now.  She decides to do something about it.  Then she gets some bad news from her family, America's birthday is nearly ruined, and Clint Barton gets the traffic ticket from hell.Throw in a sulky teenager, a mysterious stranger (or two), and one thing is clear:  this will be the most memorable Pennsic War, ever.





	1. Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been slowly developing in my mind for a long time. It will be updated on an irregular basis, partly because of my RL schedule, partly because I was in a car accident this spring and sprained my wrist pretty badly. I apologize in advance for how long this is going to take, and hope that it will at least amuse people.
> 
> Thanks.

_Mission Assignment: July 4, 2013. Target will be making a public appearance in Washington, DC. Target is to be eliminated immediately afterwards. Civilian casualties should be kept to a minimum. A briefing package will be delivered to your quarters. Do you understand, Soldat?_

_ I do. _

_The target will seem familiar. Do not let yourself be distracted by this. Elimination is a top priority. _

_ I will not fail. _

_The man is a prime symbol of American arrogance and decadent values. He may distract you with claims of friendship. _

_ So did Colonel Rossiter So did Anastasia Gorsky. So did a dozen others. I fulfill my missions regardless of the distraction. You know that. _

_Good. Remember that when the time comes._

_ I will. _

“Damn it. How is this my life?”

Natasha paused, lunch tray in hand, as she passed the table by the window. Sharon Carter, looking ready to spit nails, sat glaring at her phone while the Daily Special (“baked chicken with Southern Spices” on a bed of rice, accompanied by an unappetizing lump of green that might have once been collard greens) cooled on her plate. “Another text from Tapper?”

“No, and he should thank God Nick didn’t send him off to Bogota for his next rotation.” Sharon hissed out a breath, then typed something into her phone and hit “send.” “It's my family wrecking everything _again_.”

A car horn honked faintly from the street. Natasha slid into the seat opposite Sharon, set down her own lunch, and opened a San Pellegrino lemon spritzer. “Again? I thought things had been better lately.”

“So did I,” said Sharon. She slapped the phone face down on the table and took a stab at her chicken. “My brother is an idiot.”

Natasha had never met any of Sharon's relatives except her legendary aunt, but she'd heard plenty over the years. “That's nothing new. What happened now?”

Sharon chewed, made a face, and grudgingly swallowed. “They call this 'Southern'? My great-aunt Lizzie would slap 'em silly.”

Natasha had given up on expecting SHIELD's commissary to deliver anything that tasted the way it was supposed to after the disaster that they'd called “Homestyle Russian Borscht Night.” “Focus, Sharon. What did your brother do now?”

Rumlow, Rollins, and the rest of STRIKE Alpha strolled past, laughing over some joke that sounded even cruder than usual. Sharon waited until she was certain Neal Tapper wasn’t with them – they’d stopped speaking for reasons that Sharon refused to discuss, although one rumor claimed he'd shown up on her fire escape with a boombox and Sharon had nearly shot him - then continued. “Did you know he's never been on a vacation? Not once?”

Natasha set down her fork. “Your brother's never been on a vacation? I thought you all went to Disney World when you were - “

“No, no! _Steve._ You know, Rogers? My boyfriend, who never takes a day off except for medical reasons?” Sharon leaned forward, voice lowering enough that Natasha had to do the same to hear her in the usual cacophony. “The closest he’s ever come was a trip to a Fresh Air Fund camp up in Fishkill when he was twelve. He had a great time for about two days, and then he had an allergic reaction to some flowers and ended up in the local hospital. He's avoided Queen Anne's Lace ever since.”

“That sounds – distressing.” Natasha poured her seltzer over the glass of crushed ice she’d swiped from the drink station. “He does know that SHIELD requires all personnel to take time off at regular intervals, doesn’t he? Even my former employers had us take breaks between missions..”

She took her first sip of her drink and allowed herself a moment to remember the first time she'd ever tasted anything so good. Yasha had smuggled a few precious bottles home from a mission to Italy, and if Yelena and the other Widows had been jealous that he'd chosen to share the treat with her and not them, that was their problem. Down time was down time, and whatever happened at the government dacha was private unless it interfered with a mission.

Which it never did.

Sharon took a second bite of chicken. “He does, and I know Nick’s had a talk with him. He _says_ he doesn’t need as much because of the serum, but it’s bull. He needs time off as much as the rest of us. More, since he’s still on the STRIKE rota as well as heading the Avengers Initiative.”

Natasha shook her head. “What about during the war? Surely he took leave.”

“A two day pass to London during the Blitz wasn't exactly a vacation,” said Sharon. She tasted the collard greens, made a face, and shoved her whole tray to the side. “The closest he probably came to personal time was an afternoon fanboying at Picasso's studio after the liberation of Paris, and that was about five hours, tops.”

“He met Picasso? I never knew that,” said Natasha. She calmly exchanged her untouched burger for Sharon's chicken and took a taste. It was not nearly as bad as advertised, although the collard greens had been boiled so long they were a limp, slimy mess “I thought Fury sent Steve to a safe house out near Newark Valley for a couple of weeks after he first woke up.”

“Yeah, _that_.” Sharon blinked at the burger, raised an eyebrow at the sight of Natasha taking a bite of her chicken, and dug in. “Sending a guy who'd spent most of his life in New York to a cabin five miles from East Podunk wasn't precisely the best move Nick ever made. Steve gave up a couple of days in and came back to the city.”

“Missed urban life?”

“Couldn't take the spring peepers. That cabin is right in the middle of a protected wetlands and the frogs simply did not shut up.” Sharon took another bite, sighed in pleasure, and swallowed. “Then the Chitauri attacked, and you know the rest.

“So, no vacation, ever. That's why I decided to take him away for his birthday.”

“I thought he was scheduled to headline something in DC on the 4th.” Natasha carefully cut her meat into bite-sized pieces and dipped the first into a small smear of mustard she’d intended for the “Deluxe Burger from Paradise.”

“Yeah, he's reading 'A Lincoln Portrait' as part of a pops concert at Lincoln Center,” said Sharon. She scowled at Rumlow's table, where someone was telling a joke that seemed to be primarily about breasts even though Rodriguez was sitting right between Rollins and the agent Bobbi Morse had nicknamed “Mr. Clean.” “He'll be back by that Friday, though, and I had it all planned. Two weeks at a B&B in New Hampshire - “

“I thought you just said he didn't do well in the country?”

“ - near museums and hiking trails and craft studios. No wetlands.” Sharon made a vague gesture with her water glass toward the window. “Gourmet breakfasts, fresh air, farm to table restaurant - place had great reviews on Yelp and TripAdvisor, plus Pepper Potts told me they're a favorite with celebrities who want to get away from it all so no one would ask for his autograph.”

She shoved her phone at Natasha. “It was going to be great. Then my brother decided to get divorced and it all fell apart. Take a look.“

“Your brother's getting divorced?” Natasha's eyes widened as she read the email. “I knew his marriage was shaky, but divorce?”

“That's what he said. He even moved out, or started to. Then his wife begged him for a second chance, and now they're headed off for a month-long Refresh Your Heart seminar in California, sans Shannon.” Sharon took another bite of her hamburger and chewed aggressively. “Which means I'm going on vacation with my niece instead of my boyfriend.”

“I thought you had an older sister?”

“Already said no, plus Shannon can't stand her kids. Or her, after that mess when the family found out I was dating Steve. So that's out.” Sharon stared out the window at the building across the street. It was one of the few brownstones left in this area, and the façade sported several impressive splotches of pigeon guano despite bird spikes bristling over each window and door. “I love Shannon, but having her foisted on me this way – it's almost insulting, you know? Like 'oh, Sharon isn’t married so of course she can take a teenager for almost a month,' never mind that I have a job and a boyfriend and _plans_ and - “

She gnawed at her lower lip. “It's a mess.”

Natasha finished the chicken. The only children she spent much time with were Clint's nephews and niece, and they were still young enough to be charming, not annoying. “What does Shannon want to do? She can’t be happy with this, either. Maybe she has friends she could stay with for a few weeks.”

“I wish,” said Sharon, brushing at the wisps of hair that always seemed to come loose no matter how she styled her hair. “She's with my parents right now, but she's already paid to go to that medieval thing in Pittsburgh in August. She signed up for a fighting competition or something, and if I tell her no, she has to go stay with a friend instead, she'll be crushed.”

She sighed. “She's just like me and Aunt Peggy, you know. She wants to be more than a corporate drone. Right now that means picking up a sword, but she's already said she wants to join SHIELD after college. If I encourage her too much - “

“Ladies?” Steve, in his dark blue stealth uniform, shield slung on his back, came up to their table. His lunch tray was almost too small to fit the two hamburgers, green salad, bottles of water and Gatorade, and mound of sweet potato fries he'd chosen for lunch. “Mind if I join you?”

Sharon gestured at an empty chair, scowl dissolving into a slightly goofy smile as he unclipped the shield, leaned it against the table, and took his place next to her. Natasha covered her own smile with another bite of chicken as Steve gave Sharon an equally goofy look in return. Oh yes, they were gone on each other, and it was oddly charming.

“Of course not,” said Sharon. She gestured at his uniform. “Still on the rota?”

“Yeah. Fourth straight week,” said Steve, opening the Gatorade. He drained half of it, set it down, and looked wistful. “Maybe Nick’s right about taking some leave that's more than a long weekend. I’m supposed to have a couple weeks coming to me but something always comes up.” 

Sharon held out her phone, expression a mix of resolution and regret. “Steve? About that - “

Fortunately Natasha's own phone chose that moment to ring. It wasn't an important call – Clint had to go out of town for a couple of weeks in July and would she please check on his dog and take out the mail, pretty please, he'd water her plants and feed the stray cat that hung out on her roof the next time she was on assignment – but was a great excuse for her to nod, excuse herself, and step away from the table for a few moments. 

By the time she'd finally said, “Yes, Clint, you know I know where the dog food is, yes, I know where you live, no, I won’t need a key, go do what you need to do,” Sharon and Steve were holding hands across the remains of their lunch, him gazing fondly, her looking slightly stunned. 

“You don't mind? Really?”

“Spending a couple weeks where everyone's out of time, not just me? That sounds great, actually.” Steve gave her hands an affectionate squeeze. “As long as you're okay with it, so am I.”

“I guess we're going, then.” Sharon swiped ineffectually at her wisps, blushed when he carefully tucked one behind her ear.. “I – wow. I'll text Shannon. She’ll be thrilled.”

“And I'll call Colonel Hadley. We're past the pre-registration deadline but he should be able to add us to his camp list.” Steve pulled out his phone, unholstered the stylus, and started tapping out a message with his usual slightly eerie speed. 

“I hope he knows where I can borrow some gowns, because all I have is that one dress I wore when Shannon was squired or whatever they call it and - “

“Gowns? Camp list?” Natasha's curiosity overcame her. “Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear.”

Steve hit _send_ and broke into a big, bright, slightly surprised grin. “We're going on vacation after I get back from DC. Two whole weeks.”

“More like three,” said Sharon, and Natasha could almost hear the unspoken _honey_. “Remember, we'll have to pick up Shannon at my parents' place first.”

“Driving up to Cortlandt isn't a problem, it's only a couple hours. Think you can snag a van from the motor pool? We'll need something bigger than my bike since we’ll have a tent – “

“ - and Shannon will bring her armor -”

“ – _two_ tents, Shannon’ll need her own – “

“ – and clothing for three people and – “

" - cots or beds we can raise off the ground, Colonel Hadley says it rains a lot and there's nothing worse than sleepin' in mud - "

“ – cooking equipment, I’m not eating MRE’s for two straight weeks, that chicken fajita stuff is nasty – “

“ – no worries, there’s a meal plan – “

Natasha raised one hand for silence. “Steve. Sharon. What are you talking about?”

They looked at each other, then turned and nodded in unison. “Vacation plans,” said Steve after a pause. “Looks like we’re going to the Pennsic War.”

Natasha sat down a bit harder than she'd intended. “Pennsic? That medieval thing Clint goes to every year - “

_Which is why you just agreed to feed his dog so he could go, you're slipping Natalia - _

“ – just north of Pittsburgh?”

“That's it.” Steve tapped his at phone, pulled up a website, and turned it so Natasha could read the screen. “Here. Wanna come with us?”

Natasha blinked. The picture showed a great many people in medieval costumes that ranged from stunningly accurate to stunningly bad, including someone in a red, white, and blue outfit that looked like a medieval version of Steve's usual battle dress. “I – don't know if that would be a good idea. That woman in the sarafan - “

“Looks like she’s going to have a heat stroke,” said Sharon, leaning over to take a look at the photo. “That outfit must weigh a ton.”

“It depends on the fabric,” murmured Natasha. She’d worn one a few times when she’d gone undercover as part of a folk dance troop, complete with a kokoshnik for one surprisingly vigorous number. “Summer weight wool is much cooler and more comfortable than most people realize.”

“Wool? But – “

“She’s right. It’s not bad if it’s the right weight, that’s what my non-Cap battle dress was in the war,” said Steve. He retrieved his phone from Sharon, did a quick search, and passed it back. “Here, found a place that sells to reenactors. Looks like they’ll have everything we’ll need.” 

Sharon peered at the website, brows knotting as she read the prices. “This isn’t going to be cheap, Steve. Are you sure? I can always borrow some of Shannon’s old stuff, she’s about my size.“

“I have more money than I know what to do with, at least until the Joint Chiefs approve my demotion,” said Steve, rolling his eyes, and how many men actually _wanted_ to be busted down to colonel from the general staff? “They’ll send their catalogue overnight so we should be able to get our kit before the Pennsic deadline – “

Natasha quietly stacked her plate, Sharon’s plate, and Steve’s empty hamburger plate (he hadn’t finished his fries, better to leave them) and stood. “I’ll just bus these while you chat,” she said, and wasn’t at all surprised when Sharon waved, Steve nodded, and neither looked up from picture after picture of medieval clothing, tents, bedding, and cooking equipment. 

“Enjoy your vacation,” she added, and walked off to the dish station before either asked for her input on tent design, equipment, or whether they should wear tunics or doublets with their authentic medieval whatnots. Friendship only went so far.


	2. Born on the 4th of July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain America headlines a concert.
> 
> It does not go as planned.

_Excerpt from the New York by Nite Owl column, June 28, 2013_

_…and in celebrity news, one of my favorite little birdies tells me that New York is going to be just a teensy weensy bit less safe for a few weeks later this summer. And before you think the worst, Hizzoner the Mayor isn’t giving New York’s finest the summer off, in case that’s what you were thinking, you naughty people! _

_No, America’s vintage superhero is going on vacation! Oh, his press office (yes, he has one, courtesy of Stark Industries, and a charming young thing he is, especially when he tries to fib to a wise old owl who’s seen a lot of fledglings come and go) denies it, but you heard it here first: Steve Rogers, aka Captain America, is heading out of town sometime in the next couple of weeks to an undisclosed location, lock, stock, and spangly shield. _

_Even better, according to this particular owlet, he’s not going alone, oh no no. America’s Own Eagle is flying off into the sunset (temporarily) with the pretty blonde eaglette he’s been squiring around town for the last few months, presumably to a lovely nest off in the hinterlands. Just what they're going to do all on their lonesome isn't clear, but a wise old owl can figure it out._

_No matter what, though, my little avian buddy says the Greatest American Hero and his blonde bombshell will be back in time for the Stark Foundation's big benefit for wounded veterans in August. So if you can't get enough of America's Buffest Sweetheart, buy a ticket and be prepared to jitterbug for charity! It's for a good cause, and you know that's just what the Captain ordered!_

_And speaking of Cap’s oh so sexaaaaaaaaay billionaire crime-fighting bestie? Word is that he and his Gal Friday turned CEO are feathering their own nest out in Malibu, only a few miles from Stark Industries' West Coast HQ. They'll be back for the charity bash in August, and a little tweety bird who knows what's what said we should all keep an eye on Ms. Virginia's left ring finger when she and her avenging escort take the dance floor in the ballroom at the newly renamed Avengers Tower (formerly Stark Tower, formerly the Met Life Building and so many other names it ruffles this old owl’s beak). Tickets are available online at…._

It had been a busy day.

Steve carefully examined his makeup in the mirror – “always take one last look, even if you’re certain it’s perfect” Sally had told him the first time she’d trusted him to paint himself up for a matinee – then adjusted his tunic so the star was perfectly centered and lay flat against his sternum. It was his first time wearing what Tony swore was the lightest, most effective body armor yet, and Steve would never hear the last of it if he went on national television with the star misaligned.

Originally he’d agreed only to an appearance at the annual concert on the West Lawn of the Capitol – the Fourth _was_ his birthday, not just Independence Day, and Sharon had been dropping some pretty broad hints about what she had in mind for a present – but once word got out that he would be in Washington his schedule filled up with shocking speed. It was a major reason why Sharon had eventually decided to stay in New York, sort through all the camping equipment, garb, and other supplies that had piled up at the Tower since they’d registered for Pennsic, and do as much prep work as possible before it was time to pick up Shannon. 

“Someone has to bribe the motor pool to get a van, and I’m a lot better at that than you,” she’d pointed out, and Steve protesting that he’d gotten really good at finagling things during the war had merely gotten him a tolerant look and a shake of the head. “Go be patriotic. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

“It’s not fair. Me going off to DC and you having to do all the packing,” he’d objected, only to have her give him a gentle push out the door.

“Oh, there’ll be plenty for you to do when you get back, never fear. Now scoot,” Sharon had said, leaning forward for a last quick kiss before Sully had arrived to escort him to the airport, and that was that. Now he was sitting in a slightly worn trailer, giving his greasepaint a final pre-show check, and wondering how and why he’d agreed to jam so many things into 24 hours.

Fortunately he hadn't needed the full costume during the morning's charity breakfast at Walter Reed, or his tour of the long-term wards afterwards. His Class A's (with captain's bars, he would _not_ wear anything higher unless he'd earned it) had done just fine to rub elbows with the brass and the donors, even if a couple of retired generals had given his shoulders a second glance. What mattered was the wounded soldiers, and from the way they’d flocked to him on crutches and in wheelchairs it was clear they would have known him anywhere. And if he'd had to take a few minutes in the men's room to recover after seeing so much pain and so much courage, that would have happened whether he wore bathing trunks or his full mess dress. 

After that he’d been whisked off to Nationals Park so he could throw out the first pitch at the Washington/Milwaukee game. Management had gone out of their way to accommodate him, down to a customized jersey with "ROGERS 1945" on the back and special uniforms modeled after the old Washington Senators outfit for the rest of the team. They'd even tried to get the Dodgers in from LA for a split doubleheader, too, which was thoughtful enough that Steve probably would have been able to get through the introductions without mentioning the "Walter O'Malley was a filthy traitor" t-shirt Arnie and Michael had given him as early birthday present. Best of all, the team owner had invited Steve and his security detail to watch the game in his air conditioned private box, complete with a lavish lunch buffet, great sight lines, and surprisingly good beer.

Steve had changed into a dark blue civilian suit with a conservative tie for his next appointment, a private meeting with members of the House and Senate Armed Services Committees to discuss updates to the GI Bill. It had gone far better than he'd expected, even if a couple of the pols had tried to change the subject to get his opinion on this appropriations bill or see if he'd agree to appear with them on a Sunday morning talk show to endorse the latest round of budget whatevers. He had learned to deflect any questions about his personal beliefs before most of them had been born, and the few who'd pressed the issue had gotten a dazzling smile and a story about what a great example General Eisenhower had set for career officers by not even voting until he’d retired.

Not that Steve didn't vote, or have opinions. He did, and his teammates and friends knew all about them (especially Tony, whose views on taxation would have gotten him plenty of unflattering publicity and maybe a protest march or two when Steve was in art school). Captain America, though, was supposed to represent the whole country, and that meant official and public neutrality no matter how much Steve Rogers, private citizen, was still a New Dealer at heart.

The meeting had run long enough that Steve had barely had time to make the sound check on the West Lawn of the Capitol for the massive concert that was the reason he was in DC in the first place. Dinner had been sandwiches and bottled water with his fellow talent, followed by his fourth change of clothes in the last ten hours. He'd left most of the uniform off until the last possible moment due to the heat, and flat-out refused to wear the helmet. "They all know what I look like, Tony," he'd said when Tony had called to protest that the public needed to see the whole outfit, that anything less was somehow cheating the fans. "It's not like it's 1942 and my real identity is Top Secret, you know."

Tony had sighed, then shrugged in defeat. "Yeah, I know. You'd still look better with the helmet. The vibranium-infused paint on the wings and the 'A' is designed to reflect under the lights and - "

Steve had snorted at the idea of reflective wings, thanked Tony, and hung up before Tony could go off on one of his patented "this tech is incredibly cool, you'll love it, you really will, trust me, just _try_ it, pretty please with a cherry on top" rants. A Capitol Fourth was supposed to be a fun way to celebrate Independence Day, not a commercial for the wonders of modern technology as brought to you by Stark Industries, Leading American into the Future Since 1946, or whatever the latest slogan was.

Besides, it was his birthday. If he couldn't shuck the helmet then, what was the point?

At least this was his final commitment for the day. Once his part was over he wanted nothing more than a shower, a few minutes to Skype Sharon back in New York, and eight solid hours of sleep in the ridiculously oversized hotel suite SHIELD had booked for him at the Liaison. Even Captain America, Sentinel of Liberty and occasional dancing monkey, needed some time off once in a while.

_Buck up, Rogers. At least you aren't wearing conquistador boots this time._

“Captain?” The stage manager, a dark-skinned woman in a black t-shirt, black leggings, and black Converse high-tops, poked her head into the dressing room. “Five minutes.”

“Thanks.” Steve gave his hair a final, critical look, then opened the score he’d already memorized. “How’s the crowd look?”

“Patriotic.” The stage manager grinned. “Lots of flags, lots of red white and blue, lots of those special Frisbees they're selling that look like your shield.”

Steve barely suppressed a wince. They'd given out the officially licensed, all proceedds to charity "Captain America flying disks" to the first few thousand fans at the Nationals’ game, and the seventh inning stretch had run way over when disgruntled Milwaukee fans near the visitors’ dugout had started slinging them at the umpires. “It’s Independence Day. Not a surprise everyone's showing the flag.”

"Guess so." She paused, one hand going to her headset. "They're finishing up the Fuchs, Cap. Last chance for a bathroom break."

Steve stood, clipped the shield to his back, and tucked the score under his arm. "I'm fine, ma'am. Ready when you are."

"Right this way," she said, and waited for him to exit before carefully locking the trailer door. It was a hot night, humid enough that Steve felt the first beads of sweat break out on his forehead almost before he’d descended the stairs to the grass. He took a deep breath, tasted the dirty mud of the Anacostia overlaying the faint salt of the Tidal Basin down by the World War II Memorial. It was not a comfortable night.

The SHIELD officer – Sitwell, DC based, friends with Rumlow and STRIKE Alpha - who'd been shadowing him since he'd finished up on Capitol Hill took point while a second – Bobbi Morse, tall and blonde and quietly strong – fell in to the rear. Steve allowed himself to relax a bit – Sitwell seemed competent enough, and he'd already seen Morse in action a few times - and followed the stage manager through the usual labyrinth of ropes, lighting boards, props, monitors, and sound equipment that seemed to exist behind the scenes of every single stage, screen, or live appearance he’d ever been in. The Capitol grounds were huge but so was the concert, and he wasn't the only performer who'd rated a private dressing area.

"Two minutes," said the stage manager as they arrived just behind the stage. "The conductor's going to introduce you, wait for the applause, and then go, just like we rehearsed."

"Figured as much." Steve worked his shoulders for a moment and gave her a lopsided smile. "Just glad they're not playing 'Star-Spangled Man.'" 

"Naw, that's the encore," she said, smiling back, and he couldn't hold back a chuckle.  


"As long as it's not the Danger Mouse remix, I'm happy," he said, and this time she actually laughed.

Steve had been on active duty when _A Lincoln Portrait_ had premiered, so he actually paid attention as Maestro Williams gave a brief speech on the piece, its background, and how Aaron Copland's work during the war had set the standard for patriotic compositions ever since. It was almost interesting enough to make up for the usual blather about Steve being "tonight's very special guest, America’s greatest hero, please welcome _Captain America!_," and before he knew it he was walking up the stairs and across the stage, back straight, shoulders back, to shake hands with the conductor.

The crowd went wild the moment he appeared, and the roars only increased when he turned, flashed his best “buy war bonds for America!” smile, and waved to the kids he knew were out there somewhere in the dark. Then he was at the speaker's podium, standing calmly with his hands on his belt – breath in, breath out, just like they taught you in Hollywood - before the conductor raised his baton to begin.

First there was a long orchestral section, lush and poignant and full of the open, soaring confidence that had been part of so much music during the war years. Steve had always preferred jazz and show tunes, but he'd heard some of Aaron Copland's film scores during his time in Hollywood and liked them a lot more than he'd expected. He’d been particularly fond of _Our Town_, which he’d seen at a private screening for Henry Fonda just before he’d enlisted in the Navy late in 1942, but he'd enjoyed them all.

The conductor nodded to him as a rousing variation on _Camptown Races_ yielded to a slow, almost regal section that culminated in a clash of cymbals, more sweeping chords, and an elegant swish of the baton.

One...two…three….

Steve opened his score and began to speak.

"'Fellow citizens, we cannot escape history.'”

He paused, eyes sweeping over the crowd. A few minutes earlier they’d been waving flags and streamers and sparklers, but now there wasn’t so much as a baby’s cry from the vast expanse of Capitol Hill and the Mall leading down to the Potomac. Giant viewing screens set up at intervals glowed in the dark as his image appeared before the spectators who’d arrived too late to sit near the stage.

“That is what he said. That is what Abraham Lincoln said.”

Another pause, and Steve continued reading the message the greatest President of all had delivered during the dark days of 1862, when the Union had seemed all but lost. 

“'Fellow citizens, we cannot escape history. We of this congress and this administration will be remembered in spite of ourselves. No personal significance or insignificance can spare one or another of us. The fiery trial through which we pass will light us down in honor or dishonor to the latest generation. We, even we here, hold the power and bear the responsibility.'”

More of the sweeping, striding harmonies, more thundering brass that yielded to quiet lyricism. Steve glanced down at the score, glanced up at the thousands who’d come to honor America and have a good time.

“He was born in Kentucky, raised in Indiana, and lived in Illinois. And this is what he said. 

“This is what Abe Lincoln said.”

A near-march, thrumming underneath the narration, stirring the blood, a call to action at time when America’s fate had hung in the balance. He gripped the podium hard enough that the wood compressed slightly under his fingertips. 

"'The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present. The occasion is piled high with difficulty and we must rise with the occasion. As our case is new, so we must think anew and act anew. We must disenthrall ourselves and then we shall save our country.'"

The strings slashed briefly, then yielded to a solo trumpet that began like a battle cry before fading to the mellow warmth of _Taps_ played at the close of day. Steve flexed the fingers of his right hand, glad his gauntlet was absorbing the faint sheen of sweat on his palm.<.p> 

“When standing erect he was six feet four inches tall, and this is what he said.  


“He said: ‘It is the eternal struggle between two principles, right and wrong, throughout the world. It is the same spirit that says “you toil and work and earn bread, and I'll eat it.” No matter in what shape it comes, whether from the mouth of a king who seeks to bestride the people of his own nation, and live by the fruit of their labor, or from one race of men as an apology for enslaving another race, it is the same tyrannical principle.'"  


Aaron Copland’s music had been banned by the Nazis, and the man himself would have been a target for his religion, his politics, and his choice of lovers. Was that why he had written this? Why it was a call to remember what was best about America when the very idea of freedom was threatened?  


The music calmed, flutes and woodwinds. Steve bowed his head, lowered his voice. A summer breeze ruffled his hair, briefly cooled the moisture standing out on his brow.  


“Lincoln was a quiet man. Abe Lincoln was a quiet and a melancholy man. But when he spoke of democracy, this is what he said.”  


His head came up, voice ringing out across the Mall as the music rose behind him.  


“He said: ‘As I would not be a slave, so I would not be a master. This expresses my idea of democracy.  


“'Whatever differs from this, to the extent of the difference, is no democracy!'"  


Steve stood perfectly still, gazing out across the revelers, the Jumbotrons, the streamers and sparklers and the other performers who’d drifted up from their trailers to listen just outside the camera zone. He needed no score for the last section, the words that he’d memorized as a schoolboy back in the darkest days of the twentieth century.  


“Abraham Lincoln, sixteenth president of these United States, is everlasting in the memory of his country. For on the battleground at Gettysburg, this is what he said.”  


More trumpets, mourning but hopeful.  


_Dawn over a battlefield after a victory, as the price of peace made itself known.  
_

_Getting up to mourn the dead, deal with the prisoners, and go out to fight again.  
_

_It was what soldiers always did, and always would._  


“He said: ‘That from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion. That we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain. That this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom and that government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth.’"  


A roar from the drums, the full orchestra joining in, more cymbals, the conductor straining as if he could personally pull more sound from the instruments, more power from the stage, more emotion from the music as the final chords echoed out over the West Lawn. 

Steve stood rigid, breath sucking in and out as hard as if he’d run a marathon, hands shaking slight as the adrenalin spiked, then started to fade. Maestro Williams laid down his baton, then closed his score. The only sounds were the rushing wind and the occasional sound of a passing vehicle from blocks away.

Then the audience erupted. Roars, cheers, cries of “Cap! Cap!” and “Bravo! Bravissimo!” shattered the quiet, thousands of phones flashing and sparklers flaring, whistles and shouts and hats thrown in the air. Maestro Williams wiped his brow with an immaculate pocket handkerchief, stepped down from the podium to shake Steve’s hand, then gestured at the orchestra to rise and take a bow. 

“That was the best narration of that piece I’ve ever heard,” he murmured, still shaking Steve’s hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Excellent job, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir.” Steve waved to the crowd, which showed no sign of calming down. “It was an honor and a privilege.”

“The honor was all mine,” the conductor, and signaled to the orchestra to take another bow while Steve smiled and gave a thumbs-up to a little boy in an Avengers t-shirt at the very foot of the stage. Some, maybe most of the adults were excited because of a beer or two more than was wise, but the children who still believed in heroes made it all worthwhile.

There was more applause when he finally was able to head backstage. Most of the earlier performers were there waiting for a handshake, a selfie, an autograph, or just a simple “that was amazing, Cap.” One, a pop singer from Brooklyn who’d been born during one of Steve’s later USO tours, still remembered his parents’ grief at the news that Captain America had been lost, and it was a genuine pleasure to take a minute to reminisce about the old days with someone who’d actually been there.

Eventually the last celebrity drifted away and Steve was able to make his escape. Bobbi Morse, poised and deadly, was waiting for him backstage, batons holstered on her hips, Jasper Sitwell at her side. Onstage the orchestra was well into the 1812 Overture, which would lead into a patriotic medley and then fireworks over the Capitol. Steve had originally considered changing into something comfortable and staying for the festivities, but the heat and the crowds had changed his mind. He was relatively anonymous in New York – “heave a rock, hit someone well known, that’s how we rock it,” Tony had told him once, and as usual he was right – but DC was another story, especially with all the tourists. The sooner he was back at his hotel, the better.

"Well done, Cap," Morse said when he’d joined her, tapping her earpiece in response to a faint buzz. "Base, this is Mockingbird. Eagle is off-stage and en route to Nest. Over."

"Mockingbird, this is Base. We copy." There was a pause before Fury, voice slightly fuzzy from static, replied just loudly enough to Steve to recognize his voice. "Roger that, Base. Over." 

Morse arched an eyebrow at Steve, smiling just a bit. "I'm going to assume you heard that, Cap, but in case you didn't, the Old Man says to kick back and have something on ice before you have a heat stroke. ‘Man’s nearly as red as his gloves, tell him to sit himself down and have a cold one before he keels over’ were his exact words, if you’re interested."

"Tell Nick I’m fine. Just a little hot under the lights," said Steve, shaking his head at yet more evidence that Nick Fury had a unique way with words. He nodded to Morse and loosened the front panel of his tunic enough for the breeze to reach his chest and throat. He'd never much liked the 1812, even before the cannon shots had made him think of field artillery – too bombastic, plus to him the Marseillaise would always mean Paris during the Liberation, not an attacking enemy. "Something to drink would be great, though."

Morse, still smiling, signaled to a stagehand. "You heard the Captain. Bottled water, as cold as you've got, maybe a fan - "

"No need." Sitwell, one of those balding men who had decided to go all the way and shave off what was left, produced a silver flask from the breast pocket of his plain, off the rack suit. "I've got some cold tea in here, at least it _was_ cold a few hours ago. It's probably lukewarm by now, I’m afraid."

Steve reluctantly held out his hand. Room temperature tea sounded about as appealing as a swim in the Tidal Basin but he was thirsty enough that he didn't care. "Thanks. Probably'll take the edge off - "

"Try this instead," said the stagehand, a slender blonde who stepped in front of Sitwell without so much as an _excuse me_ and handed Steve a full bottle of Glacier Frost Gatorade so cold the bottle was slippery with condensation. "Happy birthday, honey."

"Happy - _Sharon?_" Steve broke into a grin as he recognized the wispy blonde strands that had escaped the dark bandanna she'd tied over her hair. Her fingers were cold and slightly wet, and the thought of them on his bare skin sent a jolt of lust straight to his groin. "Or are you Agent 13 tonight?"

"Just your friendly neighborhood stagehand," Sharon murmured, drawing him close enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek while Morse made a show of scanning the Capitol roof and Sitwell mopped his gleaming pate. She’d worn perfume, something clean and bracing, and he breathed deep to savor the scent and taste. "Officially Agent 13 is in New York, not swapping shifts with the Cavalry so she can surprise her birthday boy."

"Remind me to thank Agent May," he murmured back. There was a gleam in her eyes that promised a very enjoyable surprise once they were alone. "I definitely owe her one, or maybe a bit - "

"Rogers! Carter! _Down!_" yelled Morse, lunging forward and slamming both Steve and Sharon to the ground as the first howitzer roared and something almost too small to notice whizzed straight through what would have Steve’s unprotected skull if he hadn’t moved. A second shot hit a spotlight, which shattered with a plume of red sparks and a spray of tempered glass. "Base! We have a sniper, Eagle is - "

"I'm fine!" Steve gasped, twisting free and bringing the shield around to cover all three of them. What the hell had just happened? "Morse! Sitrep!"

"Sniper on the Capitol dome! _Stay down!_" she yelled, then began barking orders into her comm in between artillery shells and cymbal crashes. Sitwell, who'd taken cover behind an equipment case, whipped out his Sig Sauer and spoke into his own comm unit to request backup. "Carter?"

"I'm okay," said Sharon. She was on her feet and back to back with Steve, her breathing only a tick faster than normal. Her black field tunic peeked out from under a stagehand’s dark shirt. "Got your six, Steve."

"Thanks," he said, keeping the shield up to protect both their heads. All thought of thirst, or sex, or the sticky summer heat had disappeared as adrenalin coursed through him. "Get me a position and I’ll engage - "

"You're too far away to do any good," said Morse. She must have heard something she liked on the comm, for an instant later her shoulders relaxed slightly and she'd holstered her right baton. "Teams are deploying to what looks like a sniper’s blind. Cap, we need to get you out of here until the area's secure."

Steve lowered the shield and stared up at the Capitol. There was a faint, grayish bump on the dome just below the Statue of Freedom at the peak. How had the security detail missed it? 

"Secure? There are at least million people out there, Morse." Sitwell tucked his sidearm into its holster. "Be real."

"Zip it, Jasper," Morse said, and the local man reared back as if he'd been slapped. "Fury's going to want answers when he hears about this, and you'd better have them."

"Me? I'm not - "

"I said, _zip it_." Morse had an inch or two on Sitwell, and angry she looked even taller. "Mockingbird to Base, we need full security for Eagle and Agent 13, ASAP! Get them out of here before we find out the hard way whether there's another sniper - "

Agents seemed to materialize from the darkness, some from the local STRIKE units, a few others dressed as stagehands, still others in FBI or Capitol Police jackets. Steve had to bite back the urge to start giving orders as they formed a flying wedge around himself and Sharon and began herding them toward the nearest security checkpoint. This wasn't his op, wasn't his team, and if he forgot that there was no telling what would happen.

"Damn it," Sharon said from his right, voice tight and angry. "So much for your birthday."

"Yeah," said Steve as the first round of fireworks bloomed against the darkened sky. "So much for that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A Capitol Fourth" is really the name of the July 4th concert in DC, and it usually includes a mix of classical and pop performers. The 2013 edition did not feature Aaron Copland's _A Lincoln Portrait_ as far as I know, but it was indeed conducted by John Williams, the film composer and former music director of the Boston Pops.
> 
> As for _A Lincoln Portrait_ itself, there are numerous fine versions on YouTube. My personal favorite is the one narrated by Kareem Abdul Jabber for the Philadelphia Orchestra, but the most poignant is Leonard Bernstein conducting the National Symphony with Aaron Copland himself as the narrator.
> 
> The Washington Nationals, formerly the Montreal Expos, were of course not the DC team in Steve's day. He would have been familiar with the legendarily awful Washington Senators, who were so bad that they were supposedly "first in war, first in peace, and last in the American League." They were particularly bad in 1943, when he was on his USO tour, so seeing them win for a change was a real treat.


	3. Makes Me Wanna Holler

Partial text exchange between Sharon Carter and Natasha Romanov, July 4, 2013.

_NR: …and when Mockingbird finished ripping Sitwell a new one, she went after Fury._

_SC: ?????? I thought Nick was in New York. _

_NR: Speakerphone. It’s why I could hear them in the hallway._

_SC: *wincing emoji* _

_NR: Nick asked for this one, letting Sitwell take point for Cap's security while he was in Washington. Mocks tried to tell him Sitwell's a desk jockey these days, but noooooo, Nick wanted to make nice with the local boys so he used Jasper instead of someone competent._

_SC: Seriously? Another inch and we'd both be dead!_

_NR: That's why Nick just reassigned Sitwell. Six months in Guam._

_SC: Not Madripoor?_

_NR: *row of laughing emojis* Honey, Jasper's lucky he's not scrubbing toilets at the Raft. Or worse._

_SC: That almost makes up for having a full security detail deployed in the hall right outside our suite. _

_NR: Not precisely romantic?_

_SC: NO. _

_NR: How's Steve?_

_SC: Pissed enough that he didn't notice the rose petals I'd scattered on the bed. _

_NR: Oh, *honey*._

_SC: Or the champagne. Or the strawberries dipped in that Li-Lac chocolate he's always talking about. Or the nightgown - _

_NR: *pets* Men are idiots._

_SC: At least he's alive. I keep telling myself that. He's alive._

_NR: Good. _

_*thoughtful emoji*_

_Now go make damn sure he remembers it._

_SC: What?_

_NR: It’s still his birthday, isn't it? _

_SC: For about fifteen minutes. _

_NR: That’s good enough. Where is he?_

_SC: Taking a shower. He needed it, too._

_NR: So you’re out in the bedroom, right?_

_SC: Yesssssss?_

_NR: So. Go put on your glamour girl nightie and make sure it’s a birthday he’ll remember for something other than almost being shot._

_SC: - _

_You really are the brains of the Avengers, aren't you?_

_NR: Last time I looked._

_Entry from the _Ravin’ Steel_ blog, June 18, 2013_

_…another thing we need to talk about? “Stop & Frisk.” Not only doesn’t it work – I don’t feel safer knowing my fellow New Yorkers are getting roughed up for no reason, what about you? – it’s incredibly racist. Did you know that most of the “suspected criminals” are – surprise surprise! – African-Americans or Hispanics? Who’ve done absolutely nothing?_

_Case in point: _

_The other day I was out getting in a training run in Prospect Park and it happened right in front of me. This African-American guy in an Air Force Reserve t-shirt was about a hundred yards ahead of me on the jogging track, listening to something on an iPod. Clearly minding his own business, y’know? The way we all do?_

_Anyway, guy wasn’t doing anything the least bit threatening or suspicious, but suddenly these two cops show up, yell at him to stop, and then start patting him down and demanding his ID and all the usual bullshit. He tried to tell them he was minding his own business, then said he was due at Fort Hamilton for a group therapy session for veterans with PTSD, but they just kept telling him to shut up, they’d go the talking, and started going through his pockets. I thought they were going to strip search him, it was that bad. _

_I was pulling out my phone so I could get some video when this white guy showed up and started telling them to back off, homeboy wasn’t doing anything, and they needed to back the fuck off. Dude might have been was homeless – dirty clothes, raggy old gloves even though it was almost 80, hadn’t shaved in a week – but one look at him and suddenly everything changed. The older cop started to draw on him but he said something in what sounded like Russian and Mr. Law & Order backed right off, almost like he was scared even though the dude wasn’t armed. _

_Same thing with his partner, this tough-ass kid who looked like he was there just to crack heads. One look at the homeless guy, though, and he was apologizing to the jogger, giving him back his ID and saying sorry for the inconvenience, it was a mistake, it wouldn’t happen again. And before the jogger could so much as make sure they’d actually give him his wallet back, the cops were all but running for their black & white, looking like they were about to piss themselves. _

_The jogger looked kinda bewildered, at least until the homeless guy started talking to him. Then they headed down a side trail together like they’d known each other for years. I was running late or I might have followed them, just to document everything, but - _

The next day did not exactly go according to plan. 

Bobbi Morse, bless her heart, had hustled Steve and Sharon straight into an armored car that had whisked them to Steve's suite at the Liaison, all of three blocks away from the Capitol. There Morse had personally checked their room before letting them inside, which meant she got an eyeful of Sharon’s carefully chosen seduction props, from the transparent silk peignoir set to the iPod queued to Lester Young’s most sensual cuts. 

She hadn't so much as changed her expression, thank God, but it was still embarrassing to have someone else see Steve’s birthday treat, especially when Steve himself was so angry he was all but vibrating. "Thanks, Morse. Gonna shower now," he'd said in a voice that was one millimeter from a snarl, then marched right through the beautifully staged bedroom into the ultra-luxurious bath and turned on the taps for what sounded like the angriest shower in SHIELD history.

At least Bobbi had had the grace to apologize and leave them alone as long as they kept the blackout curtain drawn. "Try to relax. We'll take care of security," she'd said, then had actually hugged Sharon, quick and hard, before heading back outside to give Jasper Sitwell the tongue-lashing of his life.

Thank God for Natasha, and for the noise-deadening app Sharon had downloaded last year when her old neighbors had decided to hang bookshelves during the eleven o’clock news. Knowing there was a security team lounging around the VIP floor was tolerable as long as she couldn’t _hear_ them, and she’d had just enough time to change into the sexy silky 1940’s lingerie and arrange herself in an appropriately sensual pose on the flower-strewn bed before Steve emerged from the shower.

Steve had stopped dead in his tracks, stared, then slowly, _slowly_ broken into a smile brighter than the fireworks. “Sharon?” 

“Hi, soldier. I hear it’s your special day,” she’d said in what she’d hoped was a sufficiently husky voice, and he’d shucked his towel and made a bee line for her arms before she could so much as flip her hair back over her shoulder in a sufficiently noirish shrug. “Want to have a good time?”

“That sounds like a great idea,” he’d said, in between kisses to her hair and her mouth and her throat. She kissed back, smoothing her hands over bone and muscle and sleek perfect skin as he kissed and nibbled and licked his way lower, and lower, and lower still, until all thought of assassins and security details was long done. By the time they’d had their fill sometime after midnight, the peignoir set was a fluid heap on the floor, the champagne bottle was three-quarters empty, and only one dark chocolate candy remained.

Steve nestled against her, sleepy and content, every muscle relaxed, golden head pillowed on her breast, right hand loosely splayed across her flank. Sharon sighed and lazily draped her left leg over his calf. “Happy birthday,” she whispered, playing with his hair. “Did you like your present?”

He made a little humming sound. “Couldn’t have asked for better.”

“Good.” She shifted until his chin wasn’t resting directly on her sternum. “Get some sleep, honey.”

“Yes ma’am,” he murmured, then was asleep with a long, low sigh. Sharon kissed his brow, pulled the sheet over them both, and followed him into dreams.

The next morning was supposed to be a decadent room-service brunch featuring enough food to sate even Steve’s raging metabolism, followed by several hours of intimate activities designed to sate them both. Instead they’d been roused by an apologetic junior agent with the news that the Director wanted to see them in person, so instead of sipping mimosas in a bubbling hot tub they were whisked back into the armored car at a godawful hour, fed breakfast MRE’s on Fury’s personal quinjet, and bundled into yet another armored limo for the trip from LaGuardia to Midtown.

Steve had been visibly annoyed by the time they landed – he _hated_ SHIELD’s version of a breakfast burrito – and getting stuck in traffic on the way to HQ did nothing to help. He was seething by the time they arrived at Fury’s office, and Nick had not helped by starting with a rant about Steve not wearing his helmet on stage (“Why the hell do you think Stark included the vibranium?”). Steve barely had a chance to reply (“_You_ try wearing a couple pounds of metal on your head in 80 degree weather”) before Nick shifted to berating Sharon for her little arrangement with Melinda May (“we have duty rosters for a _reason_, Agent 13”), and basically taking out his rage on them until Steve interrupted to ask if they’d found the sniper yet, and if not, why?

Fortunately Maria Hill (fresh as a daisy, unlike the Old Man) interrupted before Fury could truly live up to his name. “So far all we have is what hit the stage light and the sniper’s nest in the cupola on the Capitol dome. Forensics is still analyzing the slug, but so far it the techs think it’s Soviet-made – “

Which meant about thirty years old. 

Which made no sense at all.

“ – no rifling.”

Which made even less, who even _made_ smooth bore weapons with that kind of range and accuracy? Especially with a lead slug? 

“What about the nest?” Sharon interrupted before Hill could get into too much detail. She could hit up Berenski in Forensics for the full report later. “How did someone manage to get past the Capitol Police or the Secret Service in the first place, let alone set up a nest in the cupola? It’s the United States Capitol, not a rooftop or a cliff. They would have done a full security sweep on the building no matter who was headlining that concert.”

Hill made a sour face. “Still working on that. Analysts think it was either an inside job – “

“_Hill_,” said Fury, jaw tightening.

“ – but so far the Capitol police force is looks so clean it squeaks. One of the analysts thinks it might have been someone in a light bending suit, but however the shooter got up there, they basically vanished by the time the FBI got up into the dome.”

“Has anyone checked with Xavier?” Steve said after a tense pause. “Shadowcat can’t be the only mutant who can phase through a wall.”

“Already done,” said Hill. “Says he’s not aware of any. Ditto teleporters besides Nightcrawler. We’re checking with Alpha Flight and Black Air in case they have additional information, but other than that? Your guess is as good as mine.”

“So you’re telling me we were nearly shot by a ghost,” Steve said in a voice that was mild as milk unless you actually knew him. “Is that right?”

“We’re still investigating.” Hill shifted her weight to her right hip. “Something turns up, you’ll be the first to know.”

“What about chatter?” Sharon said, and how she kept the shake out of her voice she’d never know. “Assassinating Captain America on Independence Day is not the kind of thing that stays quiet.”

“That’s the problem, Agent 13.” Fury glared at her seemingly just for the sake of glaring. “There _was_ no chatter. None.”

Sharon blinked. Beside her, Steve edged close enough that she could have reached out and taken his hand, not she would in front of Nick. Dating a co-worker was one thing, but PDA with the Director and his right hand a few feet away? “That’s ridiculous. Of course there’d be chatter. Something that big – “

“Nick’s right, Sharon,” said Maria Hill, voice softening enough to prove she was still human. “I checked with our analysts, then called in some favors at our brother agencies. There was nothing. Whoever did this is either a lone wolf or from some group so far off the radar it might as well be on another planet.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “So you’re saying that you don’t know who tried to kill us, why, or if they’re going to try again?”

“That would be correct, Captain,” said Fury. He sighed, hugely, and turned to glance at news updates playing silently on a computer screen. “Fortunately this hasn’t leaked yet, which is why I’m taking both of you off duty, at least until after you finish playing dress-up with Barton.”

The only sound was the faint hiss of the air conditioning that kept Fury’s office from baking thanks to the wall of reinforced bullet-proof plate glass windows behind his desk. A small bobbing toy by Fury’s computer screen swung up and down, up and down, in its own steady rhythm.

“I don’t follow,” said Steve after a pause that felt longer than it actually was. “Taking us off duty? What good is that supposed to do?”

Sharon moved past him so she could look Fury directly in the face. “Nick, you know I wasn’t the target. This is all about someone taking a potshot at Captain America. What’s your game this time?”

Fury’s expression did not change. “What makes you think I’m playing a game? Maybe I just feel like giving you both a little extra vacation and – “

“You never do anything just because, Nick,” Steve interrupted. He paused, lips parting the way they always did when he was analyzing a situation. “You son of a bitch. You want to use us as _bait_.”

“Bait? Is that what you think, Cap?” Fury’s gaze did not waver. “It’s not as if – “

“Sharon’s right. This wasn’t about her. Leave her out of it.” Steve’s knuckles had gone white from clenching and unclenching his fists. “I’ll move into BOQ or a safe house until you find out what’s going on if that’s what you want, but keeping both of us under wraps doesn’t make sense.”

“BOQ? You think that’s enough to stop someone who can get up onto the Capitol dome easy as you please without anyone noticing?” Fury gave them both a considering look. “There's an old saying you might have heard, that going naked is the best disguise.”

“Naked?” Hill frowned. “Nick, sending them to a nudist colony - “

Fury raised his hand for silence. “Means the best way to fool someone is to act like nothing's happened. Cap going on vacation with a lady friend has already hit the gossip columns. No one’s going to expect him or Carter to be anywhere near your usual stomping grounds, which gives us a free hand to find this guy and run him to ground. 

“So, to repeat myself: as of right now you are both officially off duty for the next four weeks. As long as you check in at specified times, go have fun, and don’t come back until you’ve finished playing Robin Hood or whatever the hell that Pennsic thing is.”

“Nick, we can’t – “ Sharon began, only to have Nick scowl so fiercely she’d half-expected him to bust her back down to probie. 

“Something wrong with your ears, Agent Carter? You may not have been the target last night, but if Cap’s out of sight so are you, at least till you get the all clear. That Nite-Owl column in the _Bugle_ mentioned you, too, unless Cap is seeing another – what did he call you – ‘blonde bombshell’ you’re also taking your accumulated leave.”

“Since when I a bombshell?” Sharon demanded, and no, she was not going to think of that watercolor Steve had done of her posed like Rita Hayworth. “Or read the _Bugle’s_ Page 6 knock-off? What’s next, doing a background check on that space alien the First Lady supposedly adopted?”

Hill, damn her, actually snickered. Fury raised his visible eyebrow. “Why, Agent 13. You should know by now that I like to keep informed, especially when my agents and their personal associates are involved.”

“Our personal lives are none of your - “

“You’re both on vacation, beginning about five minutes ago.” Fury made a shooing motion before Steve could finish. “Go clean out your lockers and don’t come back until August 6th.” 

“Where are we supposed to go? Stark’s place out in Malibu?” Steve demanded. He placed both palms flat on Nick’s desk and fixed the other man with a steely glare. “Brooklyn? My neighbors are civilians, I’m not going to risk going home and – “

“They’ll be perfectly safe, Cap. You have my word on that..” Nick leaned forward until they were almost nose to nose. “Now. Both of you. _Get_.”

Steve might have been a super soldier, but even he couldn’t match Fury for sheer stubbornness. Five minutes later Hill had ushered them out of the Old Man’s office, ten minutes after that two nervous probies had escorted them to their respective lockers, and half an hour later they’d been bundled into yet another limo and driven straight to the residents’ only parking area in Avengers Tower with instructions to stay there until they decided where they’d spend the next two weeks.

Fortunately for everyone, they’d been allowed to take their respective weapons and duty uniforms, not that anything short of a nuclear bomb could have pried Steve’s fingers off his shield. Unfortunately for the Tower’s the beautifully equipped gym, Steve had ordered up the Iron Legionnaire Tony had designed specifically to take on Thor, asked Sharon to spot for him, and then spent the next hour methodically honing his krav maga and Brazilian jiu-jitsu skills on it until it was a battered heap on the gym mats.

He felt much better afterwards, or so he told Sharon when she joined him in a post-workout shower. He was almost himself by the time Bruce Banner diffidently tapped on his apartment door to ask if he was interested in lunch, and was in a good enough mood to start reminiscing about wartime scrap metal drives when Tony stormed into the common room an hour later demanding to know why his state of the art combat droid was now so much garbage.

It was only after he’d spent much of the evening having all the equipment and costumes they’d ordered for Pennsic redirected to Avengers Tower that he dropped his guard enough for Sharon to see how desperately tired and angry he still was. Nor was she surprised a few hours later when he slipped out of bed for another session at the gym, nor that he twitched and whimpered when he finally, _finally_ managed to drop off after he’d crept back into their room and reached for her in the dark.

Two weeks until their real vacation.

What the hell were they going to do until then?


	4. The Waiting is the Hardest Part

Excerpt from oral history given by Lt. Colonel James Rhodes, USAF, to the MIT ROTC Alumni Association, date redacted:

_Q: Thanks for your time, Colonel. _

_A: It's been a pleasure. Always happy to help another Toolie._

_Q: Now, I've been holding off on this, but I have to ask. There are rumors that you and Tony Stark staged a couple of really superior hacks back in the day._

_A: (sighs) I was wondering if that was going to come up._

_Yeah, we set up a couple of hacks. Him more than me, but then again I was on scholarship so I had to be careful. Tony’s dad could always endow another professorship if Tony did something really outrageous._

_Q: I heard something about Wellesley - _

_A: That one cost me my first girlfriend, you know. She was doing some research on ice formation in Lake Waban and was furious when she found out Tony and I were the ones who set up that fake Statue of Liberty. Nearly threw me in the lake until she figured out it was Tony's idea._

_Q: That wouldn't have been much fun in January._

_A: That's what I keep telling him every time he brings it up._

_(sound of drinking)_

_No, the best one was when we built a trebuchet. _

_Q: Trebuchet? You mean one of those catapult things?_

_A: Technically it’s not a catapult, but basically yeah. Tony was friends with some people in that medieval group, what's it called? They dress up and whack each other with swords?_

_Q: The SCA?_

_A: That's it! Anyway, Tony knew some of them and got the bright idea of building a siege engine for our mechanical engineering course. We were supposed to do a project that recreated something historical, and of course Tony wanted to do a weapon. I kept pushing to do something from Da Vinci’s notebooks like that helicopter thing, but he went to one of those SCA feast things and came back babbling about how cool it was that some king named his trebuchet “War Wolf.” After that, well._

_Q: You got to admit that War Wolf is a pretty badass name._

_A: I think that's half the reason he wanted to do it._

_Anyway, he wouldn't shut up about this stuff he learned from his buddy Sir Crackerbox the Mighty or whatever, so we spent the next two months researching and doing models and testing load capacities and doing schematics. Finally we built this giant contraption - _

_Q: Wait, it was full size? Are you kidding me?_

_A: Half-scale, and believe me, that was big enough even with power tools and Tony’s bots doing most of the work. We built it off-campus in a Stark Industries warehouse over in East Cambridge, then somehow got it onto a flatbed and drove it back to campus at about three miles per hour after dark because it was so big we couldn't get a permit to transport it during daylight._

_Q: What did the professor think?_

_A: He didn't believe we'd actually built it ourselves, at least until Tony flipped out and practically started throwing all our research and notebooks and the test films in the guy's face. The mere idea that Howard had done it, or had his engineers do it – seriously, I thought Tony was going to go for the jugular, and I do mean that literally._

_Anyway. Once Tony calmed down and the prof realized we'd actually recreated a medieval siege engine, we both got A's. That part was great._

_Q: I don't understand. You'd done all that work and gotten an A – what wasn't great?_

_A: Being stuck with a medieval siege engine and nowhere to put it. _

_Howard didn't know that Tony had commandeered the warehouse, you see, and he wasn't happy when Tony asked if we could stash Skirmish Pup - _

_Q: Skirmish Pup?_

_A: Yeah, since it was based on War Wolf but was half the size and – seriously, you had to be there._

_Anyway, we lost the warehouse and our apartment house didn't have parking space big enough for a flatbed, plus Skirmish Pup was too tall to fit under the power lines. Like I said, we had a siege engine, but where were we going to put it?_

_Q: (two second pause)_

_I think I see where this is going._

_A: It wasn't all that hard, actually. Tony bribed one of Howard's pilots into letting him borrow a freight helicopter, we wrapped Skirmish Pup in enough chains to moor a battleship, and an hour later the Great Dome had a medieval siege engine sitting on top of it, pointed straight at the Hancock Tower. _

_It was the lead story on the eleven o'clock news that night – I thought Liz Walker was going to choke trying not to laugh. Made the front page of all the papers the next day, too._

_Q: What happened next?_

_A: What always happens to hacks. We had to get Skirmish Pup off the roof and give our plans to the campus museum, Howard threw some money at the scholarship fund, and by next semester everyone had forgotten about it. I think Skirmish Pup finally did end up in a Stark warehouse but you'd have to ask Tony, I was down at Andrews most of the summer and lost track - _

“So. You’re really doing this.” Sam Wilson opened a bottle of Brooklyn Bridge IPA and slid it across the island that took up most of the Avengers’ communal kitchen. “Where is this Pennsic thing again?”

Steve glanced over at the chaos that had overtaken the communal living room. Plastic storage bins, all labeled CARTER-ROGERS in Sharon’s blocky handwriting, sat on the luxurious plush sofas, the custom coffee table, and the slightly discolored area of the floor where they’d found Loki half-buried in broken terrazzo. Tunics, cloaks, and semi-medieval camping equipment were strewn across the rest of the furniture except for the single chair occupied by Clint Barton, who was reading from a checklist while Sharon folded and packed what would be their wardrobe, bedding, and tent for the next two weeks. 

Steve had offered to help, but Sharon had insisted that after several years of summer camp, managing her college field hockey team, and riding herd on assorted SHIELD agents, she could do a better job. From what he could tell she wasn't wrong, even if her version of rolling and folding and stowing their kit wasn't quite what he'd learned from Sergeant Duffy. 

Dealing with Clint was another matter.

“About an hour north of Pittsburgh.” Steve waited for Sam to uncap his own drink before lifting his bottle in salute. It was a gorgeous summer day, hot enough that Sam had been visibly sweating when he'd arrived with snacks and a six-pack in an insulated carrier to watch a WNBA game on the Tower's enormous high definition television, and the craft brew went down nice and easy. “It'll be a good change from New York.”

“Ever been to Pittsburgh?” Sam asked. He pressed his beer bottle to his forehead with a little sigh of relief. “It’s changed a lot since your day.”

“So I hear.” Steve unlocked his phone and scrolled to a picture of Pittsburgh, green and clean and all but unrecognizable. He'd only been there once, for a war bonds show just like all the others, but he'd never forget the filthy air as he'd half-carried one of the girls back to the William Penn after an illegal operation. “Looks like they cleaned up it some.”

“That's putting it mildly.” Sam examined the bowl of fruit Pepper insisted on having out so residents could enjoy a healthy snack, shrugged, and opened an extra-large bag of sour cream and onion potato chips instead. “I have family in Homewood, and they used to call it ‘Smoketown’ back in the day. Cousin Tana said they needed to turn on the streetlights at noon, there was so much soot.”

Steve nodded and chose a bright red apple. It wasn't as crunchy or tart as the Winesaps he'd bought at the green market last September, but it would do. “Sounds about right. It was the war, you know. The mills ran all day and all night to keep up with the demand for steel.”

He paused, remembering his visit to the Jones & Laughlin factory, all brilliant heat and blazing orange and the smell of burning metal. Half the employees had been drafted, and the women and middle aged men who were running the blast furnaces had flocked around to hear Captain America, Sentinel of Liberty and Hope of the Nation, speak to them about their great and necessary war work. “Didn't make it smell any better, though.”

“I’ll bet.” Sam dumped the chips onto a plate, sampled one, and shoved the plate in Steve’s direction. “How’s the house arrest going?”

Steve raised one eyebrow, smirking slightly as he set his apple aside. He tended to be cautious with new foods – he still hadn't gotten over the ghost pepper in the hot chocolate incident – but potato chips were usually safe. “I've gotten out some. A couple of public appearances, a baseball game – that sort of thing.”

There was a thump and a less than ladylike word from Sharon. “Barton. I told you to leave that alone, it belongs to my niece – “

“Yeah, I saw that thing on the Ones about you opening that exhibit at the Guggenheim,” said Sam. He turned to face the living room and shook his head as Clint attempted to explain why he’d been poking at Shannon’s camping cot. “He have a death wish?”

“Nah, Sharon’s goin’ easy on him.” Steve took a long pull on his beer. “Natasha, now - _she'd_ have him hanging from the balcony by one foot if he got outta line.”

Sam laughed. “I'll bet.” He jerked his bottle in Sharon's direction. 

“How's your lady doing? She doesn't strike me as the kind to take being cooped up all that well.”

_“Sharon? You sure about this?” Steve watched as Sharon, all in black, her hair covered by a watch cap that must have been murder in the summer heat, smeared lamp black on her face, then handed the tube to him. “Breaking into SHIELD - “_

_“I am not getting dinged by Hill for leaving a messy desk because Nick yanked me off duty two weeks early.” Sharon glanced about the alley behind the Manhattan office building that housed the Manhattan HQ, then took a good look at the sky in case Spider-Man had decided to do one of his midnight patrols in Midtown instead of Queens. “Burglarizing the place serves him right, the old mother hen.”_

_“You do know you could just badge in, take your work, and badge out, don't you?”_

_“Says the guy who staged an entire charity race to catch a stalker.” Sharon's lips quivered as she repressed a sardonic little smirk. “Admit it. This is a lot more fun than binge-watching _Breaking Bad_.”_

_Steve laughed and pulled her in for a quick hug and a kiss on whatever part of her forehead wasn't covered in lampblack. He'd watched one episode of what was supposedly the best show on TV, decided it wasn't for him, and switched over to _Dog Cops_. “Point taken.”_

_Sharon took a moment to smile, then stepped back and pointed at the loading dock. “Got the jammer? The surveillance cameras – “_

_“Took those out first thing.” Steve dug one of Tony's cleverer inventions out of his pocket, tossed it in the air, and shoved it into a belt pouch. “We’re all set.”_

_“Good,” said Sharon, and stepped into his clasped hands so he could vault her onto the platform - _

“Doing okay,” said Steve. “She's spent a lot of IM'ing with her niece, packing – you know, the usual.”

“Mm mm mm.” Sam shook his head. “What about your boss? He okay with you being out in public? The press makes him look like he's the tough one.”

“Nick told us we were off duty. Didn’t say a thing about not going to a museum.” Nick hadn’t been pleased at seeing Steve on television, but after Sharon had pointed out that the extended vacation was his idea, not theirs, he’d cut it out. “He’s not as tough as you’d think. Nat swears he acts like a little old lady with this cat he picked up and – “

“Lanterns.” Sharon’s voice floated in from the living room. Evidently she'd managed to intimidate Clint into behaving. “Two, battery-powered.”

“Check.” Clint’s reply was slightly fainter but still audible. “Also two packs of batteries, which is a good idea if you decided to go for a walk after dark. The last thing you want is to fall into the porta-castle at two in the morning.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “’Porta-castle’?”

“I think he means the toilets.” Steve took another taste of his beer. “Cutesy name but it’s gotta be better than a slit trench.”

“Anything's better than those,” said Sam, shuddering slightly. “I ever tell you about the time my wingman missed his footing and fell into one of those in the dark? No one would go near him for a week.”

“That happened to my corporal a couple days after we cleared out part of the Maginot Line.” Steve winced at the memory. Dum Dum had managed to claw his way out on his own, which was good because no one would go near him. “You smell like my Oncle Gil's cows after they get, what you say, the shits,” Jacques had declared, and Bucky had laughed so hard _he'd_ almost fallen in. “The ouvrage still had running water so we threw him in the shower before it really got bad, but it was another week before we found a quartermaster who'd give him new boots.”

Sam made a face, then clinked his bottle against Steve's. “To civilization.”

“No kidding.” 

“Wool cloaks, two.” There was a dull scrape of plastic on terrazzo as Sharon claimed an oversized bin and dropped in two thick stacks of fabric. “One black, one dark blue.”

“Check, and I still think you should get a third one. If it rains these things are going to stink up your tent like no one’s business. Wet wool smells like - ”

“I grew up in farming country. I know what sheep smell like.” A hint of Amanda Carter’s genteel Southern accent crept into Sharon’s voice. “Baby wipes, and would ya’ll tell me again just why we’re bringing these? We’re all adults, or close enough.”

“Two reasons.” Steve, who’d been wondering same thing, shifted position to get a better view as Clint picked up two plastic tubs of something called “Mother Cumby’s Di-Dee Wipes. With All-Natural Aloe.” The label art showed a cutely drawn duck in a sunbonnet tending to several human babies. “One, these are really refreshing on a hot day. Just run ‘em over your face and neck and you won’t want to jump in the lake fully clothed.”

Sharon blew a lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail out of her face. “Okay, that actually makes sense. What’s the second reason?”

Clint grinned. “Better than toilet paper if you need to use the chamber pot in the middle of the night instead of heading out to the porta-castle.”

Sharon heaved a weary sigh and shifted so she was sitting, not kneeling. The Tower's air conditioning kept the air cool enough, but she'd been clambering over boxes and piles and bins for the last hour. Now she was just sweaty enough that her her Stark Industries Limited Edition I SURVIVED THE BATTLE OF NEW YORK t-shirt clung to her chest and shoulders in a surprisingly attractive way. “Which is why the next item on the list is a chamber pot, I suppose.” 

“But of course,” said Clint, smirking slightly. “Trust me, you're gonna need two unless you're taking togetherness to a new level. Bobbi and me shared one the time I managed to drag her to the War and boy oh boy - ”

“I did not need to know that, Barton. Seriously.” Sharon pulled her t-shirt away from her body just enough that Steve got a glimpse of lovely, flushed skin when she fanned herself with a tin plate. Maybe she'd want a joint shower when she was done? “What’s next?”

“Uh.” Clint blinked, then shook out the packing list and found his place. “Blankets, two wool, one thermal.”

“Check. And yes, we have a bedspread, Indian print, that I picked up in the Village because it's supposed to look like a palampore, whatever that is.” Sharon dropped the bedclothes into a tub, then glanced up long enough to catch Steve’s eye and pantomimed strangling Clint while he went back to carping about the chamber pot being too small for two people. Steve shook his head – Clint could be annoying but he _had_ done this before – and turned back to Sam. 

“You know, the game isn’t for another hour and change. Gym should be empty right now so we could go a few rounds.”

“And miss all the fun? Not a chance.” Sam gestured at the chaos as Sharon stuffed bed pillows in on top of the palampore and forced the lid of the tub into place. “Plus it’s a lot cooler here than my apartment. As long as Hawkguy shuts up when the game actually starts, I got no problem waiting.”

“Waterproof fake Oriental rugs,” said Clint, reading off the next item and gesturing at a couple of brightly colored rolls of synthetic carpet. “Excellent idea since the floor of your tent can get awfully wet if it rains, which it will since it’s Pennsic.”

“Waterproof fake – wait, these aren’t Oriental.“ Sharon unrolled one of the rugs, which turned out to be a lime green and dark gold shag with a wavery sunburst pattern. “Where'd you get these, Crazy Nellie's Discount Rugs? This looks like something from the 70’s!”

“What's wrong with Crazy Nellie? Those ads are – hey, it was Steve's idea, not mine!” Clint protested as Sharon grabbed at a throw pillow and made as if to throw it at him. “I swear, he was watching that Henry Hellrung movie marathon on WWOR and saw the ads and – “

“Good, because they’re gonna be at this for a while.” Steve got up, rummaged through the gorgeous Sub-Zero refrigerator that cost more than he’d made in a year before he’d enlisted, and pulled out a tray of raw vegetables and several tubs of dip. “Plain, garden veggie or onion?”

“They all work for me,” said Sam. He watched as Steve uncovered the veggies and opened the tubs. “So you went to the Guggenheim and a Mets game. How you doing otherwise?”

Steve dunked a carrot stick into the onion dip. Tony had made it from a package of soup mix and some sour cream, on the grounds that Steve needed to “experience trashy post-war suburban chip and dip cuisine since you already know about Jell-O molds.” Pepper, who had been planning to use what turned out to be an expensive brand of gourmet sour cream to make her mother’s recipe for beef stroganoff, had reacted less than well, and even after she'd forgiven Tony they’d still been stuck with the dip. 

“Better than I was at first. Seeing the Mets game, even if it was in the Stark Industries corporate box – that helped a lot. So did visiting that art school in Harlem the other day.” Steve finished his carrot stick and switched to celery. The corporate box had had everything from Kobe beef hamburgers to Russian caviar, but meeting the daughter and grandson of an old student from his WPA days had done a lot more to shake him out of his funk. “Sharon, though – “

_”There’s someone else on this floor, down by the windows. Mockingbird’s cube.” Steve stood watch as Sharon downloaded all her current mission reports and other paperwork to a flash drive by the wavering beam of a penlight. She had a private office, which was useful, but they'd decided against turning on the lights in case someone else had decided to put in some OT. The newcomer was probably one of the maintenance crew if the whiff of citrus cleaner was any guide, but there was no sense taking unnecessary risks. “How much longer?”_

_“A couple more minutes. I need to check my email.” Sharon turned off the penlight and hunched over her keyboard, her face bleached gray by the flickering light from the screen. “Most of it's garbage anyway. HR about changes to the HMO and a bunch of attachments, invites to Clint's barbecue next week - “_

_“Barbecue? Clint?”_

_“One of his neighbors has a grill and is letting him borrow it. I guess there's a rooftop deck on his building.” Sharon made a little sound of disgust. “Oh, Hill must have loved writing this one – it's a reminder not to let Thor near the microwave – “_

_It was Steve's turn to snort. “Let me guess. Some probie trying to make popcorn.”_

_“No, that meathead Rollins trying to warm up his lunch. Why does Rumlow even put up with him? I know he's great with explosives but come on.” Sharon paused, brows knotting as she read. “Oh holy – I don’t believe this. Old Man must be getting soft in the head if he’s serious."_

__

__

_There was a faint creak from Morse’s area, and a rattle of mop and broom in a maintenance cart. Steve dropped down so his head was level with Sharon’s. “Definitely the cleaner. We need to finish up.”_

_“Not before you’ve seen this thing from Fury.” Sharon turned the screen so he could read without jamming her into a desk drawer. “It’d almost be funny if he weren’t serious.”_

_“The Winter Soldier?” Steve scrolled down the long, detailed memo updating Sharon (and Hill, and Bobbi Morse, and Steve himself) on the chatter about the shooting. “Who the hell is that?”_

_“No one knows if he even exists,” said Sharon. She froze as the cleaning cart rattled past Morse's cubicle, only relaxing when the cleaner began dusting one that Coulson used as a spare whenever he was in town, which wasn't often these days. “Supposedly he's a Soviet-era super assassin who got started about the time Aunt Peggy married Uncle Colin. He's credited with almost two dozen hits, most of them prior to the 1980's but a couple within the last five years.”_

_Steve looked up from a list that included an aide to the Iranian PM in the 1950's, a Wakandan attaché in 1968, two SHIELD agents on the Chinese desk during the Reagan administration, and an Iranian nuclear engineer in 2009. All had been murdered with Soviet slugs, no rifling, and the few witness reports described a dark-haired man with a muscular build, hazel or dark blue eyes, who never took off his gloves and spoke Russian with an American accent. “It can't be the same person. He'd have to be my age.”_

_“That's why most of us think it's a class of Soviet agents, not a single person,” said Sharon. “Like the Black Widows, not that Natasha was in any shape to be debriefed when Barton brought her in.”_

_Steve nodded. Nick had given him the unredacted files on the team once it was clear the Avengers were going to be more than a one-shot, and what he'd seen in Natasha's had been bad enough that he'd decided to let sleeping dogs lie. “If this guy was Russian or Russian-trained, why take a shot at me, especially now? This isn't the Cold War.”_

_“I know.” Sharon downloaded the memo, checked the last few emails, and turned the computer off. The maintenance cart had squeaked its way over to the exit, so they had about ten minutes to get outside before the cameras he'd disabled went live again. “It doesn't make any sense - “ _

“ - she's been a little restless.” Steve ate another celery stick and watched as Sharon gave up on the rugs and began stowing the dozen simply cut linen tunics that would be her wardrobe in the humid Pennsylvania summer. She’d gone mainly for soft pastels, although there was a chocolate brown that Steve found particularly flattering with her summer-bleached hair and the dark Carter eyes. “She's counting the hours till it's time to pick up Shannon and hit the Thruway.”

“I'll bet.” Sam stuck a slice of red pepper into the onion dip, took a bite, and washed it down with what was left of his IPA. “Huh. Tastes just like the stuff my Aunt Lizzie made with Lipton's soup mix.”

“I think that's what Tony used,” said Steve. They both chuckled at the thought of someone with Tony's money even knowing what soup mix was, let alone using it. “Let's go help before my girl commits murder.”

“Works for me,” said Sam. He stood, stretched, and grabbed the remaining IPA’s before heading over to the refrigerator. “Just let me stow this where it's cold and – wait. Where the hell is Mauch Chunk?”

“Mauch – I have no idea.” Steve gathered up the dip and the veggie tray and joined him at the Sub-Zero. A plain white envelope addressed to Clint care of his address in Bed-Stuy was secured to the gleaming stainless steel by a Stark Industries magnet. “District Court of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania? What the - “

“Oh, that's mine.” Clint managed to weave his way through the disaster in the living room without coming in range of Sharon, who looked ready to throw him bodily off the terrace onto the Viaduct Café. “It's a traffic summons or something. No big deal.”

“Traffic summons?” Steve frowned. He'd managed to talk his way out of a ticket and a hefty fine last summer solely because the traffic cop had recognized him and believed him when he'd sworn he'd never heard of helmet laws. “Did you blow off a speeding ticket?”

“Well, that's the funny thing. It's not actually me.” Clint pulled a letter out of the envelope and pointed to the address. “That would be someone named 'Clair Frances Bartman,' who blew through a red light two years ago when I was on assignment over in the EU. I'm going to drive down there tomorrow and get it straightened out before Pennsic.”

“Good idea,” said Sam. He had a dim view of traffic cops, or cops in general, and after some of the stories Steve had heard he wasn't surprised. “You don't want them cancelling your license.”

“Which is why I'm headed down to beautiful Mauch Chunk armed with a letter from HR and an affidavit from Fury affirming that yes, I was in Budapest when Clair Bartman broke the law.” Clint folded the letter, stuck it back in the envelope, and tucked it into his pocket. “I'll spend the night there, then head out to Pennsic. My sister-in-law and her kids'll be there for land grab and she'll have my tent set up so all I'll need to do is unpack.”

“Lucky you,” said Sharon, coming up behind him with the packing list and a set of directions for erecting the heap of canvas that was allegedly an authentic canvas pavilion based on the lovely tents in fifteenth century illuminated French manuscripts. “First you're going to show me how to set this thing up, or I swear to God - “

“We can do that later, honey,” Steve interjected. He'd read over the directions the night before and was pretty sure he knew what to do, but if Sharon didn't take a break Clint might not live long to make it to Mauch Chunk. “Sam and I were going to watch the Liberty game. You interested?”

She sighed and pulled her hair free from its elastic. “Sure. Fine. Why not? We'll just set up the tent on the balcony in a couple hours. Then someone’ll call the news and their traffic copter will swing by to get some footage, just like last week when Pepper and Tony decided to have dinner outside, and then that Nite Owl idiot will write up something about us having an orgy in our Love Tent or - “

“Orgy?” said Sam. He cocked an eyebrow at Steve. Clint, who'd gone over to the sink to wash his hands, covered a laugh with a cough. “There something you want to tell me, Cap?”

“Nope,” said Steve, and poured Sharon a glass of cold water. “Let's go watch the game.”


End file.
